by Ceves, Nina
He sat up and Sera was in his arms. She trembled and felt his heart beating wildly.
“What have you done?” asked Silas, despair in his voice.
“Just what you would have done,” she answered fiercely. “Now, come on!”
“Don’t you see? By sacrificing myself, I would have kept you safe! This isn’t over…”
“And let them win? And let them take you from me? Not on my watch.”
She pulled him up and off the altar, and although she was trembling with fatigue, she closed her eyes, held out her hand, and whispered. Holding onto Silas with one hand, she stepped forward —
— and landed in her bed in the cottage by the marshlands. She sobbed with relief, not letting go of Silas’s hand.
“Where —? How on earth?”
“I brought you home with me,” she said, her voice shaking. “Figured we were up to our third date by now.”
She opened her eyes to see Silas looking down at her, wonder in his eyes.
“How?” he whispered again.
“You think I’d let the man of my dreams go? Just like that?” she whispered back. “I found my power. It took — it took almost losing you.”
“Do you have any idea,” he asked, anguish drawn in heavy lines on his features, “how many times I’ve lost you? My soul knows the cost of these losses, Sera.” His hands traced her face and his lips pressed kisses on her brow…
* * *
Greta was silent. I waited.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered.
Greta
“You’re sure you don’t want to get some sleep?” I asked softly.
Ben’s face was pale; dark circles beneath his eyes.
“I can’t,” he said. “Are you tired of reading?”
I shifted uncomfortably. Read the next part? I took a deep breath. I read:
* * *
Sera reached up and held his jaw, tracing his scar, caressing his neck and slipping her fingers into the neck of his silk shirt. He reached up and pulled it off.
“Everything, everything,” murmured Sera, “all of it — off.”
He pulled off his boots and trousers and stretched on top of her, burying his head in her neck, pulling her shirt up so he could touch the smooth, warm skin of her belly.
“I’m shaking,” whispered Sera.
“You should rest,” said Silas, gritting his teeth. He knew the power she expended had been monumental. He must put her needs before his passion for her.
“Please,” she said softly, “I need you, right now, so much.”
Silas began to remove her clothing, carefully and gently, restraining himself. He said a swift prayer of thanksgiving, kissing her shoulders and stroking her arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips.
“You came back for me, Sera, you saved me. You dreamed me into living, into your world,” whispered Silas, into her hair, kissing her jawline and down onto her neck.
“I love you,” she said in a small voice.
Silas stopped, frozen. He felt his heart crack.
“I love you, too. Always,” he rasped…
* * *
I read the rest until I just couldn’t – it was too much. I swallowed, my mouth dry. I took a sip of cold tea from Ben’s cup.
“Damn,” he whispered.
I blushed.
He turned his head and squinted at me. “Are you blushing?”
I placed the backs of my palms on my cheeks. They were burning. “I sure am.”
“I think I am, too.”
Ben looked so handsome in the dim light, his cheeks flushed. I couldn’t believe how gorgeous his shoulders, chest, and back were, when I’d seen him for the first time in so long, without a shirt. All long, lean, defined muscle. When did that happen? I wondered what his legs looked like.
I shifted, crossing my legs, leaning against the bed, looking up at him.
“I don’t think I can read anymore,” I said softly. “Do you think you can sleep?”
“I know what I’ll dream about,” smiled Ben, sleepily.
“Silas and Sera?” I whispered.
“No way.”
I caught my breath at that. I didn’t know what to say. “Sweet dreams. Let me know if you need anything. I hope you feel better.” I left the doors to our bedrooms open.
I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time.
Ben
I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time.
In the morning, I cracked one eye open, and moaned in relief. I opened and shut my eyes a few times. No more pain.
I got ready for work. Greta had left some gluten free oatmeal for me, in the fridge, with a drawing on the napkin that covered the bowl. There was a simple drawing of an open book, and a heart on the pages. I leaned back against the counter, grinning, and ate every bite. The drawing gave me an idea.
Work was a blur of catching up, yoga, lunch, frantically catching up and finally it was 5:30.
“I say make, you say over,” chanted Scott, coming into the cubicle area. “Make!”
“Over!” shouted Laura and Alma.
“Make!”
“Over!”
“Oh, brother,” I sunk my head into my hands. What had I gotten myself into? Then I looked down at my old cargo pants and layered, baggy tee shirts and stood up, holding my arms out to the side. “Project Make Over Ben begins!”
I had texted Greta first thing after I got to work, when I realized that the make over plan was on. All I said was that I had plans after work with Scott, Alma, and Laura and would check in. She had texted back at lunch with an x and an o, which, I’m not ashamed to admit, made my knees weak.
“First stop, my place,” said Scott, as we headed for the parking lot.
We piled into Scott’s jeep and were at his house in the northeast quadrant, in a small, gated community, in several minutes. Patrick greeted us with hugs and ushered us into the kitchen, where he had an assortment of hot and cold appetizers set out.
“These are all gluten free, and these over here are dairy free too. I’ve written labels. See, these have aged gouda, the only ones with dairy, okay?” Patrick looked at the trays and platters, making little adjustments.
“Thanks, wow, everything looks so good. Whoa, did you write in calligraphy?”
He just waved his hand as though it were no big deal. Sparkling water and virgin sangria were passed around.
“So, here’s my brilliant idea,” said Patrick, wiping his hands on a cloth napkin. “You may have noticed that I’ve had my own make over thing going on and am now extremely buff.”
We all made admiring remarks while Laura and Alma grasped his biceps and rubbed his shoulders.
“To be honest, it has been a way to cope with all the adoption drama and heartache,” he said, softly.
“I’m sorry it has been so hard,” I said, feeling guilty that I hadn’t been more aware of what had been going on.
“Thanks. We still have hope. Well, so anyway,” continued Patrick briskly, “I have all these fabulous clothes that don’t fit my new, muscular frame. I would love to pass them down to you if you don’t mind hand me downs. I think we’re similar sizes, I mean, my pre gym addict size, anyway.”
“Thanks, wow, sure,” I stammered.
We all followed him into their bedroom, where Patrick gestured to stacks of pants, shirts, and sweaters. He worked as a manager at a local fabric store, and taught some sewing classes there, and had majored in theater arts at UNM, focusing on costume design.
“Try these on,” he said, taking a few items of clothing and separating them from the rest, and then come on out to the living room so we can plan alterations.”
Alterations? This guy meant business.
Feeling embarrassed, I shut the door and tried on the pants, tee shirt, and sweater. I thought everything fit fine. The tee shirt felt so much thicker and heavier and somehow stretchier than any of my tee shirts, and the sweater felt incredibly light and soft. It was a reddish brown color. I we
nt into the living room. Everyone stopped talking and looked at me. I crossed my arms, feeling that old dread of being looked at that had been with me for so long.
“Hop up here,” said Patrick, placing a chair in the center of the room. He held a fabric measuring tape.
I stood on the chair, and then Patrick and Scott began speaking in what sounded like code.
“Flat front. And the fit. What a difference.”
“I know, right?”
“Who knew he had shoulders?”
“The break, right here?”
“But he doesn’t have shoes on.”
“Okay.”
They had me put my shoes on, then I got back up. The measuring and muttering continued.
“Seriously, we could be twins, except I’m three fourths of an inch longer in the legs,” said Patrick. “Did I call it or what?”
“You’ve got that eye,” said Scott, admiringly.
“That’s why you married me,” said Patrick. “Did you know him before he met me? Did you see how he dressed?”
“The pants seem fine to me,” I said. “Thanks so much.”
“I will be feverishly hemming them, like those mice in that Beatrix Potter story,” he said, “they need to break just so over your shoes or I’ll be unable to focus on anything else. Ever again. I’ll be rocking in some corner, mewling softly.”
“Just let him, he means it,” smiled Scott, kissing his husband on the cheek lingeringly.
“Next stop, haircut!” said Laura.
“I usually go to Speedy Snips,” I said.
“Mmm hmm,” replied Laura neutrally as we got into the jeep again. “We’re going to stop by my salon. My friend Camille owns it. She has been cutting my hair since college.”
Next thing I knew, we were in front of a small hair salon by the university, in the Brick Light District. Camille, a short woman with a short, choppy hairstyle, was holding the door open and smiling. Within moments, I was wrapped in a cape and getting my hair washed, which I felt really awkward about, and then I was sitting in front of a mirror, with four people in earnest discussion around me. Camille tilted my chair back, placed a towel over my eyes, and then I felt something warm and sticky being wiped between my eyebrows. Then something like a cloth was pressed onto it. I smelled some sort of beeswax scent and then: ouch. The heck? My chair was raised back up, the towel removed from my eyes, and I was peering into the mirror, my eyes smarting. The skin between my eyebrows was red, and now hairless. Camille delicately smoothed some kind of green lotion on the red skin.
“Don’t even begin to complain,” said Alma. “Just think of these two words. Bikini. Wax.”
I cringed.
Alma nodded solemnly, tilting her head to the side, her expression stony, holding her arms out wide, all tough. I laughed and she grinned, her eyes sparkling.
“The volume,” said Camille, agreeing with something that Scott and Laura were saying. She turned the chair so that it faced away from the mirror. Then, my friends stepped back, sitting on what looked like a couch from the forties, and Camille got very quiet, snipping her scissors and circling me. I didn’t know if I should make conversation or be quiet, so I chose the latter. In silence, Camille began cutting my hair quickly, seeming to enter some sort of zone. Finally she stepped back, set the scissors down, and smiled.
“Come on over,” she called to the three on the couch, and they scrambled up. She turned my chair toward the mirror.
Laura, Alma, and Scott let out breaths they’d been holding, and smiled.
“There it is,” murmured Laura. “The haircut his hair needed, all this time.”
“Right?” said Alma.
“Sending picture to Patrick,” muttered Scott as he held his phone up. “Brava, Camille. Brava.”
“Aw, shucks,” grinned Camille.
“Thank you,” I said earnestly. I didn’t know anything about haircuts, but my hair was a lot shorter now, and sleeker. There weren’t any parts sticking up and puffing out, they way there usually were.
“I will see you in six to eight weeks, preferably six.” Camille handed me a card. I reached for my wallet.
“All taken care of,” said Laura, and Scott and Alma nodded.
“What? No, guys, thanks!” I felt a wave of gratitude, that I had friends like these, who would care enough to help me.
On the way back to Scott’s house, he cranked up the volume on the radio and they sang loudly to the chorus of Jason Derulo’s “Talk Dirty to Me.”
I just grinned, sat back, and watched them.
At Scott’s house, Patrick opened the door and put his hand to his heart.
“Oh, that picture did not do him justice! Come in, let me look at you. Yeah, that works.” He gestured to a pile of clothing. “I’ve got the sweaters folded, with cedar and lavender between them. I know you’ll give them a good home. I know you will never, ever hang them up.”
I promised, but something in my face must have given him cause for concern.
“It would stretch them out! They’re cashmere!”
I promised, with more conviction, this time.
“I got a few of the pants hemmed, and will finish the rest and get them to you, soon.”
I thanked him. He waved my words away.
We drove back to the parking lot, and I thanked my friends again.
“Just remember,” called Scott, as I got into my car, “cleanly shaved neck!”
Greta
I was so tired after the previous night’s sleep, after the whole weekend. I tried to stay awake until Ben came home, but I ended up falling asleep, and didn’t even hear him come home. I had written and read until suddenly what I was reading and writing blurred into a dream where Caspian became Silas who became Ben.
The next day, I got a text from Ben, asking me if I were free for dinner that evening. We made plans to meet in Old Town. I had that excited I have a date feeling all day at work. I smiled as I handed out orange slices to the toddlers at snack time.
“These so spicy!” Cole said.
“Spicy!” agreed Tameryn.
I laughed, imagining telling Ben about this little moment. I used to always tell him funny things my students said, and it always made him laugh. I had stopped doing that in the last year.
After parking, I hurried to San Felipe church, where we were to meet. I saw Ben standing there, and my heart started beating really fast. He turned, and smiled at me, and I slowed as I approached him. My mouth dropped open, and I stood in front of him, just staring. New, modern haircut. Brownish red cashmere sweater. Scarf. Five o’clock shadow. Slim fitting, flat front pants. Same old Doc Martens. He seemed taller, older, more sophisticated, urban, and… hotter.
“Ben,” I said, looking up at him. There was something different about his face, his eyes looked bigger, somehow.
“Hi, hon,” he said, softly, his eyes never leaving mine, as he reached around and pulled me close. He held me for a moment and I leaned against him. His mouth landed on my cheek and he kissed me slowly. I felt the gentle scratch of his beard.
“Ben, you look so handsome,” I breathed, my heart racing.
“Thanks, but you’re the one looking so gorgeous, I can’t stand it,” he said, his full lips curving into a smile.
“Me?” I laughed, “after a day of play- dough, and glue, and glitter?”
“I think you’ve got a little on your cheeks,” he said, brushing them with his thumbs, so gently, looking into my eyes and then at my mouth. Very softly, he let one of his thumbs graze my lower lip. Without even thinking, I parted my lips and reached up on my tip -toes. Ben’s eyes widened for a split second, and he began to lower his face to mine. My stomach flipped.
“Look, it’s Ms. Greta!” I heard a woman say. I turned, in a daze, and saw one of my little students, Eddie, and his mother.
“Oh, hi!” I said, my voice sounding high pitched. I introduced Ben to them and they went on their way, Eddie smiling shyly at me, waving.
Ben rocked back on his hee
ls, his hands in his pockets, smiling ruefully at me. I blushed, I could feel it.
“So, you must be hungry after a long day of toddler herding,” he said.
“I would never hurt the toddlers!” I exclaimed.
“No,” he said, “herding, like…”
“I’m just kidding! I knew what you said,” I laughed.
Ben rubbed his chin, smiling at me. “It is so damn good to hear you laugh.”
I ducked my head, nodding. I looked back up at him.
“Are you hungry? Does your head feel better?” I asked him.
“Even if my head feels better, will you still read to me?”
“Um, yeah. Would you read to me, too?” I felt myself blush again.
“Would you like that?” Ben’s voice got lower. “We could… take turns.”
I swallowed, darting a glance up at him. His eyes looked so dark. I shivered.
He took my hand and started walking toward a restaurant.
“Ba da da da da — read dirty to me,” he sang in my ear.
I burst out laughing.
Ben
When we got in front of the restaurant, I stopped and looked inside, through the window. It was colorful, bright, and warm looking. People, looking animated, were conversing and eating and drinking. I felt reluctant to leave the cool, darkening evening. I looked down at Greta and took her hand.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Yes, but not as though I can’t wait, why?” She squeezed my hand gently.
“I want to go home. I want to be alone with you,” I said, my voice sounding rough. Her eyes widened and I saw her throat move as she swallowed. Last thing I wanted to do was make her feel pressured. I didn’t want to rush her.
“I don’t mean it like that, yet,” I grinned, summoning a little swagger from somewhere. “I admit, though, I want to kiss you. If it’s okay, I want to kiss you.”
She smiled and ducked her head, squeezing my hand again.
